Civil War is Upon Us
by EvanescingSky
Summary: As the tensions in the 1800s rise, America begins to feel the effects of Northern and Southern anger. The further the chasm between them deepens, the more America begins to lose his hold on reality. How can he survive the splitting of his country?


Civil War is Upon Us

The trouble began small, like most big problems seem to. Headaches, upset stomach, arguments on both sides. But it expanded, larger and larger. Headaches became temple-splitting migraines. Nausea turned into ulcers. Arguments became passionate riots, stinging newspaper editorials and political rants. America knew something was wrong when he started to wake up places without knowing how he got there, sometimes in the middle of a conversation. Unbeknownst to him, he was beginning to sport two totally different personalities: The United States of America and The Confederate States of America. But the first real attack didn't come until his meeting with Mexico and England.

"…was saying, the land is really too much for you." England gave America a reproving look, like one might gaze at an overeager, foolish child. "Texas is still in contention, according to the Mexicans. Just cede it to me; you don't need it." America just stared at England with glazed eyes, as he had been doing for the last two minutes of the Brit's speech. His expression pinched, just for a moment, before he spoke.

"Now wait just a darn minute! This here land belongs to me!" he exclaimed, narrowing his eyes. "I worked damn hard for this and no i-di-ot Pommie is going ta tell me otherwise!" His voice took on a peculiar twang and he pronounced each syllable of the word "idiot". "You can just get your red-coated little hiney back to England! I won Texas fair and square!"

"No you didn't!" Mexico interrupted furiously. Her dark brown eyes were squinted with dislike. "That land is mine! You have to give it back!"

"America, I realize you're up and arms about this," England began dryly. "But even your English usually isn't THAT atrocious."

"Shut your fat mouth!" America snapped furiously. England felt a lump of confusion rise in his mind. Usually America was very hard to rile up; his temper almost impossible to really enflame. And what had happened to his accent? "Like I done said, this land belongs to me!" He thumbed his chest. "So y'all can get yourselves back to your own countries!"

"But you insist on continuing slavery here," England began.

"Slavery is my right!" America exploded. "Slaves are happy where they are! They love their masters! Slavery is God's plan! Don't be gettin' no high-minded ideals on me, you monarchist sonofabitch!"

Mexico just rolled her eyes and crossed her mocha-colored arms. As far as she was concerned, America was a child. A really big, dumb child who she'd eventually ring dry for that land she'd lost.

"Now listen here, you ungrateful brat," England said, irritation turning to anger. "You'd be nowhere without me!"

"Don't you go startin' that again!" America thrust in. "You ain't no-" Suddenly he broke off, grimacing and hunching over. A few strangled moans escaped his lips and he curled his arms around his gut. "Slavery is wrong," he grunted. He jerked violently and another groan punctured the air. When at last he straightened up, his face was beaded with sweat and he looked extremely tense.

"America-?"

"I'm fine. I'm leaving; y'all need to accept that the land belongs to me now," America said shortly. "I fought Mexico for it and I won, that's all there is to it. Don't go stirrin' up trouble. You don't belong here anymore, England. If anything, this is between me and Mexico." With that, he turned and walked home.

"What the devil is wrong with him?" England asked no one in particular.

"He's a freak, that's what," Mexico replied, hocking a wad of spit into the sandy ground. "I'm going home then."

America got home and collapsed on his couch, feeling sick to his stomach. When he woke, he looked around, his blue eyes growing wide.

"How did I…?" He couldn't remember a thing, save for leaving to go meet England and Mexico in Texas. He recalled getting there; they'd both looked grumpy and hot. But he couldn't summon to mind a single thing afterwards! Swallowing hard, America stumbled into his washroom; he looked unnaturally pale and a bit green around the edges. He gripped the wash basin, feeling the world turn beneath his feet. What was wrong with him?

Since he couldn't put a name to it, and duty still called, he went on with his life as normally as possible. But soon his ailment grew to the point where politicians could no longer ignore the sickly nature of their country. They realized this during a heated debate in the House of Representatives between John C. Calhoun and Henry Clay. America had stood watching, nodding in respect to points made from both sides while his inner turmoil grew. A stabbing pain in his forehead grew into two distinct voices arguing.

_Slavery is morally wrong! It can't expand west!_

_We can't survive without slavery! Our entire economy depends on it! Propaganda from the north seeks to destroy our way of life!_

_Slaves are being mistreated-it's a corrupt system! We cannot allow our bread to continue to be earned by the sweat on another man's brow! _

_Without slavery, we will die! Slaves are treated as family; they grow to love their masters! If they are freed, it will be chaos!_

Without even noticing, America fell to his knees, his hands clamped over his ears.

"STOP IT!" he screamed. The debating men fell silent, looking over at America with shocked expressions. "Stop it, stop it, stop it! Everybody shut up! I can't hear! It's too loud!" It was pin-drop silent in the room. His face was screwed up with pain.

"America?" Clay asked anxiously. Other representatives looked around uncertainly.

"MAKE THEM STOP!" America wailed, clawing at his ears. "It's too much! Stop it! We can't fight like this!" He went on for several minutes, raging about silence and the need for peace. When at last he came too, he was deathly pale, with sweat pooling at his collarbone and tears standing in his eyes. He looked around, alarmed by what he saw.

Everyone in the House was staring at him, their eyes massive, their expressions ranging from anxiety to horror to revulsion. He got to his wobbly feet and brushed his suit off.

"I-I think I'm going to go lie down," he said shakily, trying to remain dignified. "I don't feel well." The door to the House clicked as he left.

The tension in the country grew to an explosive level as the debate over slavery raged. America himself was stretched thinner and thinner and President Polk had to hide his dismay; America seemed sicker every time they met.

"Election day is drawing nearer, America," Polk said to him one day. "Whoever leads the country next will have your fate in their hands."

America nodded solemnly, but it seemed to Polk at that moment that the country was so much a child. He was too young to shoulder this burden! Polk hung his head in his hands.

"You must be strong for them," Polk went on.

"I know," America said, leaning back in his chair. He winced slightly; every movement seemed to cause him pain these days. "I can handle it."

But Polk's prediction proved to be untrue. President Buchannan was utterly useless, did nothing to alleviate either side of the conflict and became remembered as one of America's all time worst presidents. America felt little sympathy for him when he left office weary and tired of criticism.

With Lincoln's election came the great split America-people and person-had feared. While he himself rejoiced to have a strong, wise candidate like Lincoln as his boss, the South was outraged. And America felt it. He lay in bed for days, his heart and stomach on fire, his head pulsating with agony, unable to sleep. He was sure he'd never felt a greater misery, not even during the Revolution.

He lay writhing in a sweaty tangle of sheets, crying out for England, France and Canada in his delirium. Sometime he seemed to forget he was independent. Other times he howled for his former ally, France, to come help him. It was his brother he truly craved at his side though.

_Oh, Canada! Why couldn't you have been freed with me? We would have made an amazing team!_

Repeatedly he begged his doctors to bring Canada to see him; every time he was refused. Canada belonged to England, and as such, he was a rival. Not to mention the English had been pushing the Northern border again, in addition to setting their sights on Texas for themselves.

So America suffered in solitude, dreaming of the day when Europe finally saw fit to leave him and his hemisphere-mates alone.

Just two months after Lincoln's election, America was in Lincoln's office speaking with him about the new president's plans for the future when South Carolina succeeded from the Union.

America dropped to the ground with a squeal of pain. He wrapped his arms around himself, making horrific gargling, gasping sounds.

"No…South…can't succeed," he choked. It was a terrible, inhuman, garbled sound that was drawn with difficulty from his bloodless lips. "Hate…Lincoln…" he rasped. "Need…slaves…no…slavery is…wrong…not past Texas! Arg!" America began to twitch about on the floor, tears streaming down his cheeks. It felt like someone was ripping him in two; there was an enormous pain in his chest, as though his fiber was being stretched like a cheap piece of cotton.

Lincoln called for his advisors.

"No…" America moaned, doubling over into a ball on the floor. "No succession! Ahhh...erk!" Another animalistic cry was torn from his throat. Lincoln felt overwhelming pity for the young man-he was hardly more than a boy, in truth. Tears stained his youthful cheeks, the softness of childhood not yet vanished from his face or voice. The jaunty curl of his hair was matted to his head with sweat. The officers stood by awkwardly, watching America convulse. Lincoln looked over at them.

"We cannot allow succession," he said.

"But sir, war is hardly a desirable option either," pointed out one of the advisors. Lincoln nodded slowly.

"We must send supplies to Fort Sumter in the south," Lincoln mused. "We will gauge their reaction then."

A hideous death rattle-esque noise halted the conversation. America used the wall to drag himself mostly upright. Bloody drool from where he had bitten his tongue and cheek to bleeding oozed from the corner of his mouth; he wiped it away with one hand and looked to Lincoln in agony.

"The Union must be preserved," he said. Determination gleamed in his eyes, the same fighting spirit which had driven him to take on the world's greatest empire with nothing more than a collection of farmers and hicks, the zest which had allowed him to drive the above mention empire from his land, not once, but twice, the same fire with which he charged into the Mexican-American war and won. It was a burning refusal to lose, to be taken advantage of, to forgo what he knew could be his if he worked for it. "I will not let our Forefathers' work be in vain. I will not let Europe rejoice to see my Democracy fail; I shan't give them that triumph! Ack!" He bent over again, trembling, but at last raised his ghostly-white face to regard the men. "I will not see the United States torn apart for this one thing."

* * *

><p>I've always been curious about how the Civil War affected America. Someone else raised the idea that he began to suffer from something like <em>Paranoid Schizophrenia<em>. This is a short, semi-cohesive peice showing America beginning to split into multiple personalities: the North and the South. Or, Billy Yank and Johnny Reb, as they were known during the war.  
>England really did set their sights on Texas, though they never made a real go at it. The Northern boarder, especially towards Orgeon Territory, was disputed.<br>On November 8th, 1860, Abraham Lincoln was elected president. December 20th, 1860, South Carolina became the first slave state to succeed from the United States. It was quickly followed by ten more of the slave states. War didn't break out until the North attempted to send supplies-food only, no weapons-to Fort Sumter (one of the only two remaining Union-supporting forts in the South) in South Carolina. The Southerners were pre-warned that the North was sending food, still saw it as a hostile act. For thirty-four hours, they lay seige to Fort Sumter. No one was killed, but the North was enraged. Hence began the Civil War. Originally, it was fought partially to keep the South in the Union and partly to stop the spread of slavery to the West. Halfway through, Lincoln attempted to do away with the problem by freeing all slaves with the Emancipation Proclaimation. The war dragged on another two years regardless.


End file.
